


A Midwinter's Daydream

by Saesama



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: 1930'S Nightclub AU, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Mobster AU, Overstimulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:30:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5691277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saesama/pseuds/Saesama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marianne only meant to stop by the Dark Forest to grab something, not get stuck inside due to a blizzard. Thankfully, Bog is there and more than willing to help her stay warm.</p><p>(1930's Nightclub AU, for the Strange Magic Secret Santa)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Midwinter's Daydream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Selkie_de_Suzie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selkie_de_Suzie/gifts).



> _I would love some quiet time snuggles before a cozy fire in the midst of winter for Bog and Marianne, be it In-Universe or Human AU (bonus points if they make the Human AU the 1930’s Nightclub AU). Just the fluff and warmth and peace a winter evening with your loved one can bring. I’m also totally fine if the snuggles turn a wee bit steamy_  
>  -Selkie_de_Suzie's Secret Santa Prompt. Joyous Holiday, friend :3

Marianne hugged her elbows and let slip a few choice words she’d learned from Stuff. She’d forgotten her new fur stole at the Dark Forest the night before. Normally, it wouldn’t be a problem, but this was a gift from the wife of one of her father’s business partners, and she’d be expected to wear it to Sunday dinner and the evening service. The dutiful daughter, pleasing her father and his friends, complementing their taste in fashions three years old and far stuffier than she was ever interested in. 

Though, it would have been handy just then.

She swore again and picked her way up the street. A deep storm was settling in, fat snowflakes clinging to her coat and lashes and already she was slogging through snow up to her ankles. It had been bitterly cold the night before, and she’d worn the far-too-fancy-for-a-speakeasy stole with a certain mocking pleasure. But _someone_ had given her an extra coat to wear back, very polite in draping the oversized article over her shoulders, and she’d left the stole behind in favor of blushing hot the entire way home. And the louse had done it in full view of half the staff, the very picture of decorum and looking out for a lady, and she’d only discovered her missing stockings from last week in the pockets when she got to her place. She was going to keep it for a while, maybe wear it a few times so her scent was ingrained in the seams before she returned it. It would serve him right.

What would serve _her_ right is if she got trapped at the Dark Forest in a blizzard. The wind picked up into a coarse howl, whipping snow around in tight eddies. There was no one else out on the streets, everyone either in church or in bed on a cold, blustery Sunday morning. She had no idea if the club was even open; she was hoping that someone was in, perhaps Bog had slept over, or Griselda was in straightening up from the night before-

The door swung open under her knuckles, and she raised a brow. Either the King family indulged in Sunday services in the middle of the dance floor, or someone had forgotten to lock the door.

The Dark Forest was so different in the cold, white light of day, the heady scent of smoke and booze gone stale without anyone to refresh it. Marianne shut and locked the door behind her, rubbing her arms to get some of her circulation back. No church services here, and she idly wondered if Bog knew any hymns as she crossed the floor. 

As she came closer to the back areas, she heard a somewhat-steady thwacking noise. Curious, she followed the sound, down past her dressing room and to one of the rooms usually set aside for merchandise when it absolutely had to pass through the club. The room was mostly empty at the time, a few crates stacked neatly in the center, and she noticed with interest that there was an actual fireplace against the outer wall, small and dusty and left over from whatever building the club had been before Bog bought it. Bog himself stood next to the fireplace, a thick board propped up against the wall, and the noise was him kicking the board, obviously trying to break it. The board cracked and splintered but didn’t quite break, and he paused, glaring down at it. Marianne smiled, amused. “Did you try kicking it? It might help.”

“ _Mo Chreach!_ ” Bog whipped around and Marianne didn’t miss the way his hand went to his side, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there. His hand dropped immediately once he spotted her standing in the doorway, his outrage sputtering out into bafflement. Marianne lifted her hand to her mouth to hide her smile. “Marianne? What’re ye doin’ here?”

He was in his undershirt, his suspenders hanging about his hips. Marianne took a moment to enjoy the view, her eyes tripping along his arms and chest before meandering back to his face. He noticed, judging by the way he swallowed, and she let her smile grow a fraction. “I left something here, last night,” she said. “What are you doing back here?”

Bog’s eyes darted sideways and he gestured at the windows set near the ceiling. “Didn’t seem worth it to try and go out in this,” he said. “And, ah, the fireplace in here ain’t blocked.”

Marianne grinned, delighted. “Would you object to company?”

Bog’s eyes softened. “Never yours,” he said, the sincerity in his words sparking a little ball of warmth in Marianne’s belly. Then he blinked, the corners of his mouth drawing down. “But how’d ye get in?”

“Someone forgot to lock the front door,” she said, straightening off of the door frame. “I’m going to use the phone in your office, Mister King.” She waved cheekily over her shoulder as Bog exploded into spirited cursing and began to attack the board again. “Get the fire going!”

“Oh, I can start a fire, Tough Girl,” he growled back, his voice low and still tinged with anger and Marianne _blushed_ , hustling back up the hall. 

She made the call to Dawn, claiming the storm as too harsh to get through and the streets too dangerous to traverse and there weren’t even any taxi’s going. Dawn agreed and as they talked, Marianne’s eyes landed on the battered old couch. The cracked leather gave her an idea.

Her dressing room gave up nothing but a few dresses (and her missing stole) and she climbed the stairs to Bog’s small room. There was an extra blanket on the bed and an absolute mountain of them against the wall, evidence of Griselda fussing over her son. Marianne piled all of the extra blankets on Bog’s bed, added his pillow, and bundled them all up to drag downstairs.

Bog came out of the back room at the sound of her bundle thudding down the stairs, halfway through the action of pulling on his shirt. “What on earth are ye doin’, Tough Girl?”

“What are _you_ doing?” she retorted. “You don’t need that.” Bog paused, considered, and let his shirt fall back off of his arms. “Much better,” Marianne hummed, hauling her bundle up on her shoulder. “Get the cushions off of the couch, would you?”

“Bossy wee thing,” he complained, but his eyes were warm and curious as he walked past her. The fire was crackling cheerfully in the tiny fireplace, broken boards and what looked like crumbled racing reports stuffed into the brick hearth. Marianne dropped her burden and began to tug blankets free. One over the nearest crate, another on the floor before it, and Bog returned with the cushions. She propped them up against the crate and piled the rest of the blankets around in a sweet nest. 

Bog leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets and an amused smile playing over his lips. The room was chilled but the heat from the fireplace was growing and it was easy to slip out of her coat and heels. It was a bit harder to keep going. Acting the brazen Femme Fatale was one thing, but this was all so… homey. Intimate. Just her and the man she adored and a fireplace during a blizzard. Biting her lip, she shucked her demure Sunday dress and jacket, not looking at him as she laid them neatly over another crate. She didn’t miss the way his breath caught, and a glance back revealed his lips parted in soft wonder, his eyes taking in her slip and stocking feet.

Slow, Marianne sank down into the nest of blankets, her legs folded up beneath her. She looked up through her lashes and Bog was still watching her, his hands fisted against his thighs. Marianne smiled and patted the floor at her side. “It must be cold over there,” she said.

Bog blinked as if startled and uncurled from the doorway. “Ye look a vision, Tough Girl,” he muttered, folding up at her side. His arm snaked around her waist and he tugged her into his lap as he settled back against the cushions. Marianne grabbed one of the blankets and spread it over them both, not shy in tucking it in under Bog’s legs and rump. He jumped a bit when she goosed him and her giggles turned into a squeak when he returned the favor. Swatting at his hands, she twisted until her back was against his chest, his arms around her and his breath warm on the back of her neck. “Comfortable?” he asked, so little between them that she could feel his chest vibrate with the words.

“Very,” she replied, tipping her head back against his shoulder. Outside, the wind shook the windows with a howl, and she turned her head up to press her mouth to the underside of his bristly chin. “Good thing, too, because we might be stuck here for a bit.” She felt him swallow and she smiled, making sure to brush her lips against his skin as she spoke. “We’ll have to keep each other warm.”

Bog’s breath hissed between his teeth. His hands went from tucked protectively around her middle to splayed over her sides, his nails catching on her slip as he gripped her. Marianne let him start pulling her close before she shifted, her face forward again and her shoulders up, cutting off his roused passion like a knife. “After all,” she said, bright and proper and grinning where he couldn’t see. “It’d be a shame to let this nice fire go to waste, wouldn’t you agree, Mister King?”

“It would indeed, Miss Fairfield,” he grumbled, pulling her back with a petulant yank. Marianne barely managed to avoid laughing at him, but he contented himself with simply holding her again. Not that she minded him getting handsy, but she wanted to enjoy this for a bit longer. The fire warmed them from the feet up, chasing the chill from the room, its crackling a counterpoint to the howling winds. It was still early in the day, but Marianne felt drowsy and pleasant, luxuriating in the feel of Bog behind and around her. 

She didn’t quite doze off before she felt Bog’s arm move against her. He didn’t go far, his hand dropping from her waist to her thigh, sloppy like he’d fallen asleep himself. Except, after a moment, his fingers curled against her, his thumb tracing the edge of her stocking. His fingers stroked, slow and lazy and teasing, down her thigh almost to the knee and back again, just barely brushing the line of skin between her slip and her stocking. It was almost a soothing gesture, if her skin didn’t light up like electricity every time he touched her bare skin. 

Each stroke swept a little higher, pushed her stocking down a little lower, crept a little further around the curve of her leg. Marianne didn’t react until the back of his thumb brushed over the front of her panties and she gasped, a tiny little noise. “Oh, forgive me,” Bog said, his voice light and false. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your fire-watching.” He didn’t move his hand, his knuckle flexing just enough for her to feel him moving, not enough for any kind of friction. 

Oh, he was _evil_ , and she absolutely deserved this, but she still hated him and his sinful hands. “You’re forgiven, Mister King,” she said primly, hitching the blankets up under her chin, and if her hips pressed back between his legs when she did, well, he shouldn’t have gotten cocky. His breath snagged between the inhale and exhale, and Marianne snuggled back against him, ignoring the hand still on her thigh.

Bog took a moment or two to muster himself for the counter-attack. He dragged his hand up, deliberately trailing his fingers along her center, and slid under her slip. His nails plucked at her garter belt, then at the waist of her panties, chasing the soft curve of her belly. Marianne inhaled as his hand spread over her middle, the heat and roughness of his skin like a brand. His fingers slid beneath the elastic and scratched down, a gentle, pleasant tickling until he could brush oh-so-lightly over her folds.

Marianne keened, any idea of teasing and holding back lost as Bog’s fingers parted her and his teeth scraped along the shell of her ear. Bog let out a soft growl, stroking across sensitive nerves with both fingers and tongue, and Marianne arched, rolling her hips. “How’s th’ fire?” he asked, his voice just a bit too rough to be casual. “Too hot for ye?”

“Never,” Marianne gasped, bucking her hips again; the rat bastard was _still_ being a tease. “You’re the one acting like you’re about to get burned.” She let the blankets fall around her waist and hooked her arm behind his neck, using him for leverage to roll her entire body against his. The hand still around her middle tightened into a claw, and she could just barely see his eyes as he stared over her shoulder, watching her body move. Marianne turned her face against Bog’s neck, her teeth light against his Adam’s apple, and her free hand reached down to press his harder against her.

Bog bit her shoulder and pulled his hand away. Marianne whined at the loss but he only pulled back enough to pull her panties down her thighs. They caught against the straps of her garters and she swatted his hands away to unhook her stockings and shove her panties down her shins. As soon as she got one foot free Bog wrapped his hands around her thighs and spread her legs, hooking her knees over his own thighs. Marianne hid her scandalized gasp against his throat; the blankets were tangled around her feet now and her panties hung from one ankle. She was completely, shamelessly exposed, spread wide and wanton and on display in Bog’s lap. Perhaps he noticed her discomfort, because he kissed her temple, a tender gesture that made her smile a little. Then his hands slid up her thighs, until the fingers of one hand could tease her clit and two fingers on the other could slide inside her.

“Oh _god!_ ” Marianne cried out, digging her nails into the back of Bog’s neck.

“Close enough,” Bog muttered against her hair, grinning. Normally, she would have elbowed him for his cheek, but his terrible, terrible fingers sank deeper inside her and any words she had fizzled out into a moan. The wind echoed her with a high shriek, rattling the windows. “Sounds miserable out there,” Bog remarked, rubbing lazy circles over her clit.

Marianne wiggled in his grip. “I did say we have to keep each other warm,” she reminded him, her words breathless and stuttering. The slow plunge of his fingers was destroying her, curls of heat settling deep in her belly. He always thoroughly ruined her before taking his own pleasure, and one day she was going to tie him to the bed with her stockings and return the favor and-

His hips surged up, his desire firm and hot against her rump. It was always a dizzy sort of thrill, witnessing the evidence of how much he wanted her, knowing that his fast heartbeat and heavy prick were entirely her fault. Marianne rocked her hips, back into his and then up into his hand, desperate for his touch but equally desperate to give him even a fraction of what he gave her, pleasure spiraling tight at the base of her spine until-

“ _Marianne,_ ” he groaned, his voice as broken as she felt, broken in a way he only was like this, alone and heated and _she_ did that to him, she drove him to that and her climax snapped up her spine like lightning. She cried out, her hand in a fist in his hair, and he groaned again when her passage clamped down around his fingers and didn't want to let go.

She took a deep breath and the exhale sounded a little like a sob. Bog made low soothing noises and eased his hands back, eliciting a tiny whimper from Marianne when he slid free of her heat. He was still so hard and so hot against her lower back but he took his time, stroking her arms until she could breathe again, until she sagged back against him and turned her head to kiss the side of his neck. “I think the fire’s going out.”

Bog looked down at her, confused and concerned, then up at the flickering, dulled fireplace. “Fuck!” He shot up, the blankets around his ankles nearly taking him back down again. Marianne bit her lip to hold back her laughter as he grabbed a thin board and stirred up the flames again. While he was distracted with layering more wood on the hearth, she slipped out of her unmentionables and, after a short search to locate her wayward panties, placed them with the rest of her clothes.

When Bog straightened up from the fire, he was greeted with the sight of Marianne, stretched out on her front among the remains of their fireside nest, only a single blanket across her legs hiding any of her body from view. She looked up at him, her chin propped up on her folded arms, her smile warm and soft. He stared at her, unable to draw another breath after his last exhale, his eyes wide and dazed. “Didn't know how lovely visions could be,” he managed.

Marianne blushed and crooked her fingers, gesturing him back to her. Bog started a bit and stalked toward her, pulling his undershirt off over his head. He kept going past and Marianne propped up on her elbows to look back in time to see his trousers hit the ground, his belt clanking off the floor. Bog sank down over her, skin against hot skin, his arousal hard against the line of her buttocks. He blanketed her, his weight on his elbows and his mouth against her ear. “What're ye doing, Tough Girl?” he murmured. “You'll catch yer death of a cold.”

“Good thing you're here to heat me up, huh?” she asked, wiggling her hips up. Bog slid against her, the friction delicious and dangerous, not quite where she wanted but it was good, so good, to feel him above her like this. She turned her face to the side and Bog stretched up a little more to slide their lips together, lazy and messy and perfect.

Bog’s hand slid down the arched line of her throat, along her side, and curled over her hip. “Up a bit, love,” he murmured against her mouth, tugging on her hip bone. Marianne started to sit up but he didn't let her, his body still caged over hers. His hand left her and he stuffed his pillow under her thighs. “There ye go.”

The pillow canted her hips back when she lowered down again, and Bog nudged her knees apart to settle between her legs. His prick pressed against her for a moment and they sighed together when he finally slipped inside, not slow like a tease but slow like he wanted to savor it. He sank deep and stayed there, his breath hot and unsteady against Marianne’s shoulder. “God, Bog,” she whispered, barely audible above the howling storm. “You feel so damn good.”

“Yer perfect, Marianne,” he whispered back, bracing himself on his elbow above her head. “Yer bludy perfect.” He didn't thrust so much as rock, his body tight against hers, barely shifting, and she was constantly filled to the brim, spread wide and aching and wonderful. His height meant he could kiss her without breaking rhythm or pulling back, and the angle had him pressing down in her in a way that made her back arch with every shallow movement.

Marianne had no idea how long they stayed like that, locked together so intimately. It was almost strange; their lovemaking was usually frenetic - if not frantic - and wicked, and to be slow was to tease. This was intense in a completely different way, building up without anything harsh enough to trigger her release. Soon, she was near-sobbing with every breath, wracked with pleasure so deep it almost hurt. Bog paused, nuzzling her ear. “Ye alright?” Marianne could only nod, too close to drowning to try and attempt words. He pulled her hips up again with one hand, and his first proper thrust had her bite her lip so hard she nearly drew blood. “This what ye need?” he asked, demanded, pleaded, and her mind cleared enough to notice that he was _shaking_.

“Need you,” Marianne managed, arching her back to kiss his jaw. She pulled her knees up to better support her weight, and for the leverage to push back into the next thrust. Bog swore under his breath, moving in short, hard jerks that drove the breath from her lungs. For a terrifying moment, it felt like she was _too_ wound up, that her pleasure would keep building and building without cresting and it would kill her or at least knock her unconscious. And then Bog’s hand slid from her hip, down the crease of her thigh, until his fingertips could press hard against her clit.

Marianne nearly screamed, except it was his name, ringing through the room, drowning out even the wild shrieks of the storm. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could do nothing except shake and sob, her body a single knot of terrible wonderful ecstasy and Bog was still going, his desperate thrusts dragging out her orgasm to near the point of pain and it was too much too-

Bog’s teeth sank into her shoulder, his wild groan muffled by her skin as he finished, his hips snapping and stuttering and finally falling still. He sagged and Marianne couldn't help a high whine as he shifted within her, everything far too sensitive. “Dammit,” Bog sighed, carefully pulling out and collapsing to her side. “Ye alright?” he repeated, concerned.

Marianne rolled to the side and tangled her hand in his hair, pulling him in to kiss him. “I'm gonna walk funny for a week,” she hissed against his mouth, “and I don't care who notices.”

Bog made an odd little choking sound and tugged her into his arms, burying his face against her hair. “Won't tha’ be interestin’?” he muttered. Marianne laughed, still a bit breathless, and he soothed a hand down her back. “Yer not hurt?” he asked, his voice still ragged but sweet with worry. “That wasn’t… I didn’t…”

Marianne snuggled up against his chest, shivering a little. “I'm sore,” she said, as Bog pulled a blanket over them both. “But I'm fine. I'm good.” She laughed again, pressing her face to his collarbone. “God, I’m _so_ good.” She leaned back in time to catch his proud grin and she kissed his chin. “When my legs work again, we’re gonna slog back to my flat for dinner.”

“Oh?” Bog kissed her back and pointedly looked out the window. “It's gonna be cold out there. Ye sure yer warm enough?” 

Marianne rolled her eyes and snuggled back up under his chin. “I'm surprised we didn't force spring to come early,” she grumped against his throat. Bog chuckled and settled his arms around her again, her head pillowed on his bicep. The fire was burning down again and she felt deliciously warm and exhausted, but she didn't want to fall asleep. What if the storm died down and one of Bog’s gangsters stopped by the club to do a bit of business? 

Bog kissed her forehead with chaste affection, the rise and fall of his chest slowing down, and she smiled. It wouldn't hurt to close her eyes for just a bit, right? Just a nap with the man she adored in front of a fire during a blizzard. 

Just for a bit.


End file.
